Trifles, Light as Air
by fairwinds09
Summary: A series of more or less unrelated one-shots about Illya's jealous streak.
1. Listening In

A/N: This is crossposted from my account at A03 (under the same pseud).

This entire thing is due to a lovely reviewer's encouragement to write jealous!Illya fic. I had the idea rattling around in my head for several days, and it finally clicked. It turned out a bit more humorous than I intended, but Napoleon Solo has a way of doing that to any writer's best-laid plans.

The title is taken from Othello, Act 3, Scene 3.

"Trifles light as air  
Are to the jealous confirmations strong  
As proofs of holy writ. This may do something."

* * *

He can _hear_ them. Apparently they have forgotten that there's still a bug in the lapel of Cowboy's jacket (or they just don't care) but either way, he doesn't think he can take another minute of it. He would turn off the receptor if he could, but it's a new prototype that Waverly sent them only last month, and the sounds automatically transmit until the bug itself is switched off. So, unless he intends to actually throw himself off the hotel room balcony, he's stuck listening to _this_.

At the moment, she's moaning in delight, and every nerve in his body feels like it's going to snap. He doesn't know what Cowboy is doing. He doesn't really want to know. What he does know is that she has damn well never made that noise for _him_ before.

"Oh, God, yes," her voice comes in, clear and unmistakably husky. "Mmm. Right there. _Meine Gott_."

Solo chuckles. "Oh, that worked, did it?"

She doesn't answer, just gives him a breathy sigh, and Illya feels the sudden need to hit something. Hard.

Another interminable minute passes, and then Gaby lets out a squeak and he can hear the smack of hand hitting flesh.

"Don't!" she commands, but she's giggling, and he releases the breath he's unconsciously been holding. "Napoleon, that _tickles_."

Oh. It tickles. How delightful.

There's some more rustling, and then he hears the unmistakable sound of a zipper being drawn down. This is too much to bear. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides, and without looking in the mirror, he knows his face is flushed with fury. It's bad enough listening to the foreplay, but he has no intention of waiting around for clothes to start coming off.

Another zipper drawn down, and then a thud as something heavy hits the floor. He would prefer not to think what that is.

"Mmm," he hears Solo murmur, in that voice that Illya mentally categorizes as oozing honey. "This is better, don't you think?"

Apparently she does think that's better, because the woman is practically purring like a very satisfied little German cat. Without thinking about it, he grabs an ashtray from the coffee table and sends it sailing across the room. It hits the closet doors with a satisfying clatter.

There's silence on the other end of the wire. "Did you hear something?" she asks, and Illya freezes. He forgot that his room is directly below their own, and that if he decides to destroy it, they're most certainly going to hear.

"It's nothing," Solo says decidedly. "Something in the street. Come back here, Teller, we're not finished yet."

That's really the last straw. It's bad enough that the Cowboy is making love to the woman he's been pining over for the last six months. (KGB agents don't pine. He knows this, but he can't seem to help it.) It's bad enough that he's being forced to listen because the two of them apparently don't have the common courtesy to switch off their listening devices before engaging in decadent Western debaucheries. But he will be damned to the depths of hell before he lets that arrogant American asshole order Gaby around for his own perverted entertainment.

He stomps out, Russian curses flowing, and slams the door with all the force he can muster. (The splintering sound he hears as it makes contact with the frame is music to his ears.) The elevator is not an option—he will punch things, and Waverly doesn't like paying for repairs. So he takes the stairs, two at a time, and he's already breathing hard when he reaches their room—not from exertion, but from sheer rage. He can feel it coursing through his veins, the ringing sound in his ears, the telltale tap of his fingers against his thighs.

When he slams his fist against the door, he can feel it shudder on its hinges, and his lips pull back from his teeth in a fierce grin. Good—let them know their time is up, he thinks, and then he hears Solo's voice, still ordering: "Gaby, get the door, will you? I'm a little…busy."

She pulls open the door, and he's prepared for just about anything—clothes in disarray, hair mussed, lips marked and puffy from Solo's attentions. He's even prepared for something worse—lingerie, for instance. What he is _not_ prepared for is a fully-dressed, tidy, barefoot Gaby peering at him quizzically from the threshold.

"It's just Illya," she calls over her shoulder, and she moves aside to let him in. "Are you finished with the drinks yet? I'm dying here."

He doesn't move from the doorway. Something is not right here—something does not make sense. He is not a child, a novice at sex. He knows full well what those sounds over the wire meant, and he immediately suspects a cover-up.

Solo turns from the mini-bar in the far corner and flashes him a grin. "Ah, Peril," he says, and Illya bristles at the nickname. The bastard has no right to smile and sound friendly, not when he's surreptitiously trying to fuck Gaby right under Illya's nose. "Would you care for a martini?"

"He doesn't drink on the job," Gaby announces, loftily, as she flops on the sofa and picks up a newspaper. "I, however, do. Bring it here."

Solo smiles at her imperious tone and hands her the glass. "I think you'll like it," he says, eyeing the contents judiciously. "It's my own concoction—I've been experimenting with it for three years now, and I think I've got it at the point of absolute perfection. What do you think?"

She takes a sip, closes her eyes, and appears to think about it for several long moments. "Mmm," she pronounces at last. "I like it."

"Excellent!"

Illya finds his tone nauseatingly cheerful, and restrains the fierce desire to slam Solo's head into the coffee table. Eyes flicking from side to side, he steps inside, cautiously. (He hates being ignored, particularly when he's trying very hard to not kill people with his bare hands.) Solo looks over at him and waves him closer with the hand not holding a martini glass.

"Peril, for God's sake, close the door and come sit down," he says nonchalantly. "Gaby and I were just discussing the possibility of renting a Lamborghini for our next mission. She doesn't think that Waverly will agree to the expense, but I contend that she can make a very…persuasive case."

Illya snorts. "I'm sure you do," he mutters. Persuasive, indeed. He refuses to sit, and chooses instead to stand behind them, arms folded, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

Gaby looks up at him, coolly. "Is there some reason you're standing behind me, glowering?" she asks, flicking through the pages of her paper. "You're blocking the light."

He doesn't know how to lead into this, and subtlety has never been his strong suit. Might as well just come out and say it.

"You forgot to turn bug off," he says, the blunt words dropping awkwardly into the lamplit camaraderie of the room. "Thought I would come let you know."

He's expecting embarrassment, at least on Gaby's part, but he does not expect both of them to brush this off with such insouciance.

"Did you forget to turn it off when we got back from dinner?" she inquires, not looking up from her paper. Solo hums and frowns, stirring his martini with deep concentration.

"I think I did," he says, distracted. "My apologies, Peril. I keep forgetting that it's the new prototype. Hope we didn't keep you from your virtuous Soviet bedtime."

Illya hears his own knuckles crack as his fist clenches.

"I was not in bed," he replies stiffly. "Did not want to eavesdrop on your…conversation." He spits out the word with as much venom as he can muster.

Gaby is still ignoring him, but Solo looks up with sudden, keen interest.

"How thoughtful of you," he murmurs urbanely, but Illya can see the wheels turning. "And exactly how much of our, er…conversation did you hear?"

He hears the sound of teeth grinding, and realizes after a moment that it's his own molars. "I heard enough," he snaps, and feels the tension in his shoulders knot even further. Solo is grinning again, and if he has to watch that fatuous smile for one more minute, he's going to throw someone through a window.

"Mm-hmm," Solo hums, deadpan. "Gaby, dear, would you mind telling the Red Peril here what we were talking about before he came barging in?"

She looks up from her paper, a frown line appearing between her eyes. As furious as he is right now, he still wants to smooth it away with his thumb. He mentally kicks himself; he _is_ going soft, and it's ridiculous.

"We were talking about the Lamborghini," she says, in the tone of someone explaining something very simple to an idiot. "Why?"

"Because I would surmise that our Russian friend is convinced that we were engaged in other, slightly more amorous activities. Hence the teeth-grinding."

He takes a step forward, feels the mist rising. If they want to carry on under his nose, then so be it. But they will not mock him for it.

Gaby's face is a picture of confusion. "What?" she says, and he knows her well enough to see that the bewilderment is genuine. "Why would he…"

He sees her suddenly put two and two together, her eyes flicking from Solo to the pair of tall boots that lie unzipped and abandoned on the floor beside the couch, and her eyes flash with temper.

"Oh, God, Illya, you are such an _idiot_ ," she snaps, swinging up off the couch to confront him. "You heard Solo giving me a backrub and thought that I—that we—" He nods, guiltily, and waits for her to finish. "Why would you think that?"

Solo chuckles, delightedly. "Why wouldn't he? We're both incredibly attractive people, and I know that I for one am considered irresistible—"

He breaks off as something that sounds suspiciously like a growl rumbles from Illya's chest.

"My God, you really believed it, didn't you?" he says, and ducks as Illya's swing barely misses his head. Gaby grabs his arm, which makes him go still immediately.

"Stop it," she hisses between her teeth. "Just stop it, both of you. This is ridiculous."

His body is still thrumming with energy, but the small hand on his arm holds him like a manacle. He doesn't dare move for fear that he'll explode and she'll be caught in the crossfire.

"Peril," he hears dimly, and he sees Solo turned towards him, hands spread out in front of him in a peace-offering. "Nothing happened. Would I lie to you?"

Illya scoffs. "In a heartbeat." It's an Americanism he picked up from Gaby, of all people, and it seems particularly apropos in this moment. Her hand on his arm tightens, and he looks down at her, beautiful and angry, and wonders which is worse—her contempt, or Solo's smug expression. It's a close contest.

Her nails dig in. "I'm not lying to you," she says, and she's deliberately pinching now. "No one's been rolling around on the floor in drunken orgies in here. At least not yet."

His vision blurs at the mental image—Gaby in something sheer and filmy, a glass in her hand, sprawled on the rug beneath his feet. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sudden stab of arousal.

She scans his face, makes a furious noise, and drops his arm. Turning on her heel, she paces for a moment, and then turns on her heel, still livid. "You're jealous," she accuses flatly, and he can't stop the dark flush that crawls up his neck. "You are!" she exclaims. " _Dummkopf_."

He feels rather than sees Solo move in the edges of his peripheral vision. "Perhaps this is a conversation that does not require a third party present," the American says, laughter trembling in his voice. But Gaby is having none of it.

" _Nein_ ," she spits, and purposely steps on Illya's toes as she storms past. "I'm not talking to either one of you, you stupid macho _Arschlöcher_. I'm taking this bottle and going to bed. At least it's not going to make asinine accusations. _Heilige Scheiße_."

She smacks him sharply on the shoulder with the bottle of vodka as a parting shot, and then the door of the bedroom slams shut. He jumps a little at the sound. This is not going even slightly as he expected, and he has no idea what to do. A furious, swearing Gaby is not exactly his idea of a solution to the evening's dilemma.

Solo is openly laughing now, hands stuffed in the pockets of his suit and eyes alight with malicious joy.

"Smooth, Peril," he says, and Illya is reminded of an Italian dress shop on the outskirts of Rome and the door swinging shut behind a girl in a blue dress. "Very smooth."

He makes a noise that he himself doesn't quite recognize. "This is your fault," he says, the barely restrained violence in his voice all too evident. "You left it on. On purpose."

Solo raises an eyebrow. "I would never do such a thing," he says, the picture of innocence. "It was an honest mistake. Your reaction, however, was absolutely priceless. How long have you been in love with her?"

Illya jerks as if a cattle prod has suddenly been applied to his flesh.

"I—am not—I haven't—" he rasps, but the words won't come. How to plausibly deny half a year of longing? It is impossible.

"Oh, please," and Solo is laughing at him, again. "It's painfully obvious, Peril. A little dangerous, all things considered, but I don't blame you. She's…incredible, our little chop-shop girl."

Illya stalks toward the open window. The air is too close, too stuffy in this room. He needs to breathe.

"I cannot compromise the mission," he manages at last, not daring to look at the man behind him. He may poke fun at Solo's espionage skills, try to needle him, but in reality he knows the American can read his face like an open book. "It would be…foolish. Unprofessional."

Solo is quiet for a moment, and Illya can hear the clink of his teeth against the rim of his glass.

"Have you considered the fact that it may be a little late for that?" he says finally, and Illya freezes. "Food for thought, Peril."

Illya shakes his head, but Solo is already moving, setting his glass down and heading towards the bathroom, shedding his jacket as he goes.

"Feel free to try the martinis," he tosses over his shoulder before he closes the door, and seconds later Illya hears the sound of water running. He stands there, alone in their tiny living room, the breeze from the French windows carrying up the noises of the street, and wonders what to do. He feels incredibly foolish, having shown his hand so obviously, and is considering slinking back to his room with his tail between his legs (even if this is not at all the Russian way).

And then he hears the music, coming from behind the bedroom door.

 _When your baby leaves you all alone_ _  
_ _And nobody call you on the phone_ _  
_ _Don't ya feel like crying…_

 _C'mon, baby, cry to me_

The door cracks open, just a tiny bit, and he catches a glimpse of a whirling pajama-clad figure. Perhaps his eyes are deceiving him, but he seems to see a beckoning finger as she twirls past his line of vision.

He moves toward the door like a marionette being pulled by invisible strings, his heart pounding wildly. As he reaches it—hesitates for a moment—a small hand darts out, snags a handful of his sweater, and tugs him forward, not gently.

He smiles for the first time that night.

Perhaps this will not end so badly after all.

Translations:

Meine Gott - My God

Dummkopf - idiot

Arschlöcher - assholes

Heilige Scheiße - holy shit

(If you can't tell, my version of Gaby has a mouth on her.)

As always, if something's wrong with my translations/word choices, please let me know! Thank you.


	2. Intertwined

Napoleon Solo isn't often wrong about women. In his line of work, he can't afford to be. There have been numerous times when he's staked his professional reputation on being able to predict how a woman would behave, how she might react, what it would take to seduce her into giving up what she knew. There have been a few times when he's staked his life on reading the secrets in a woman's eyes. But even he could not have predicted this.

Gaby Teller is a cuddler.

It boggles the imagination, their tough little chop-shop girl snuggling up to him, but he's quite certain that he's awake and fully functioning, and he is more than certain that Gaby is wrapped around him like a clinging vine. She must have burrowed against him sometime in the night, and right now she's unmistakably curled up in his arms, her head nestled against his chest, her arm around his waist, one leg hitched up over his hip. It's not a bad way to wake up, he muses—one hundred and fifteen pounds of beautiful woman wound around him. He really wouldn't mind doing this more often.

He stops that thought process, sharply. This is Gaby, for God's sake. He won't lie—he's thought of her as a woman, and a beautiful one at that; the mental images have certainly been vivid enough. But he's never muddied the waters with a partner before, and he's not about to start now— especially not given the way Illya stares at her when he thinks no one's looking. He's not about to open that particular can of worms. Better to pretend that nothing happened, that they woke up chastely on opposite sides of the bed, and move on with the day.

He procrastinates for a moment, though, enjoying the weight and warmth of her, the silent trust that it implies. He was the one who insisted they share the ridiculously large bed in the penthouse suite, because, as he pointed out, it would be difficult to explain to the housekeeping staff why a supposedly devoted husband was sleeping on the couch— _ruins the perfect couple image_ , he'd told her. He was surprised when she agreed to it, but then again, she's always been comfortable with him—even in the beginning, their adrenaline-fueled escape from behind the Wall and its edgy aftermath. He remembers her eating his risotto (and making snarky comments about it smelling like feet), and smiles fondly, rests his cheek for a moment against her hair. She trusts him, at least enough to run away with him—and sleep beside him. It touches him, inexplicably.

Yawning, he tries to stretch slowly, not wanting to wake her just yet. She's had the temperament of an outraged honey badger lately, and he thinks it's a combination of boredom and too little sleep. The op they're running has been incredibly monotonous lately—inordinate hours of loitering in streets and shops, watching their mark wheel and deal among the lower elements of Algerian society. They're waiting for him to contact the man who, according to their sources, controls every movement of arms and drugs in and out of the city, and who holds potentially explosive information about British and American agents stationed throughout North Africa and the Middle East. It's vital that they recover the documents and find out exactly how much he knows (and how much he's shared), but until he makes his move, they're stuck in coffee shops and vendor's stands, staring at row after row of beautifully woven rugs. (Gaby has informed him in no uncertain terms what will happen to him tomorrow if he makes her look at one more _verdammt_ rug. He believes her.)

At least the hotel suite is up to par. (He thanks whatever gods exist that Waverly isn't chintzy with the budget.) He enjoys playing a recently married couple—together long enough that they're comfortable around each other, but not so long that the bloom has begun to fade. It suits them perfectly, this cover story, and he's actually had quite a bit of fun teasing her with his flawless imitation of a doting husband. She's tough, their little chop-shop girl, but she's got a streak of whimsy, too, sparkling like bubbles in champagne. The brain of a criminal mastermind, the cool daring of a professional racer, and the vocabulary of a sailor—that's their Gaby. He would have never suspected that "inveterate snuggler" would ever be added to the list. And yet, here he is.

He feels her shiver against him, and looks down. She hasn't woken up, he thinks—she's just cold. He pulls the blanket up over her shoulders, and she mumbles something indistinct into his chest. Without thinking, he drops a kiss into her hair.

"Better, hmm?" he murmurs, and she mumbles again, pulling him closer to her. The rational part of his brain knows it's for his body heat, but he can't seem to help his smile. God help him, she's getting to him; if he's not careful, she'll have him wound around her little finger just like Peril.

Her nightgown really isn't helping. He'd picked it out for her last week in Florence—a clinging slip of satin that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. She had protested, vociferously, but he'd pointed out that a recently married woman would never wear striped pajamas to bed with her husband—and then almost chuckled aloud at the expression on Illya's face. The Red Peril is still hopelessly infatuated with her, ever since Rome, and apparently still completely incapable of doing a damned thing about it. It would be funny if it weren't so utterly pitiful—the KGB's attack dog in the throes of puppy love. (All right, it _is_ funny. Hilariously so.)

Illya's struggles with romance aside, the nightgown had looked incredible on her. Right now, he can feel exactly _how_ incredibly it fits her, how it highlights every single dip and curve. He skims a hand over her side, careful to not let himself wander anywhere that will get him into trouble, and sighs regretfully. In another place, another time…but that line of thinking will get him nowhere. Time to wake her up (gently—very gently), and face the day.

Unfortunately, he is not given that opportunity.

There's a soft thud on the balcony, the sound of a body dropping onto the stone, and he is instantly alert, body poised to spring out of the bed and dive for the gun in the nightstand. Before he has the chance, he hears a low whistle, like a birdcall, and relaxes again. It's just Illya, here for their morning briefing.

His relaxation is short-lived. There's a brief rattle at the catch of the French windows, and then the Russian is standing in the doorway, his enormous frame blocking the sunlight pouring in. His reaction is almost comical—he looks at the bed, at his partners wound around each other, and then does a near-perfect double take, eyes popping wide open and lips parted. Frozen in place, he stares for a long moment, as if he can't quite believe what's right before him. Then he swallows hard, and seems to remember the open door behind him as a sort of afterthought. He closes it and turns back with his arms folded across his chest, surveying the tableau in front of him, jaw clenched tight.

"I see you are having an excellent morning," he grits out, voice flat and expressionless, but Solo can see the muscle in that clenched jaw starting to tick.

"It wasn't my idea," he responds, and immediately feels a twinge of remorse. It's bad enough that Peril is assuming there's more going on here than simple cuddling—he doesn't need to rub salt in the wound by implying that this was all Gaby's doing. (Even if it was.)

"Doesn't matter," his partner snaps, and oh, there's the finger-tapping again. This is about to get exciting.

"Peril," he says, soothingly, trying to calm him down before innocent furniture is destroyed, "it's fine. She got a little cold, snuggled up for warmth—you know."

Apparently Illya can't handle the words "snuggled up" in reference to Gaby Teller, because he takes a step forward, arms still crossed firmly over his chest, and Solo notices that both hands are clenched into fists.

"Oh, for God's sake," he snorts, getting irritated. "If we actually were screwing each other into mindless oblivion, do you really think we'd still be wearing anything? Use those KGB super-agent skills of yours."

Illya actually _growls_. "Screwing each other?" he spits, and Napoleon's never seen those blue eyes burn so furiously. " _That_ is how you talk about it? I cannot—" and he seems to be at a loss for words that will adequately expression his sense of outrage. "Russian man would _never_ speak of his—his—"

"Lover?" Solo supplies helpfully.

"Would never speak of _her_ in such a way!" Illya practically bellows, and Napoleon feels Gaby stir next to him. She's been awake for the past five minutes—he felt her tense next to him when the door opened, but she had apparently decided that faking sleep was the better part of valour. She seems to have changed her mind.

"Illya," she mutters sleepily, turning over to face him. He stops mid-gesture, staring at her with guilt and fury warring on his face. " 'Morning. "

His teeth grit, and he looks away. "Gaby," he mutters, eyes fixed on the opposite wall.

"You're very noisy for—" she checks the alarm clock on the nightstand "—six-thirty in the morning."

He shifts awkwardly, still refusing to look at her. "I apologize," he offers, stiffly. Solo props himself up on his elbow to look at her, and she flashes him a wicked grin.

"So tell me," she says briskly, pushing herself up until she's sitting with her back against the headboard. "Is it the cuddling you object to, or the idea of Solo and I—how do you say it? Screwing each other?"

She glances at him for confirmation, and he nods encouragingly. Illya has abandoned his perusal of the opposite wall and is now staring at her in open disbelief.

"You would use such terms for _this_?" he asks incredulously, waving a hand at the bed. "You do not—"

"What exactly do you think _this_ is?" she cuts him off, eyebrows arched. He huffs in irritation, hands flexing at his sides.

"I don't know," he rasps. "I don't want to know. Is none of my business."

"You're damned right it's none of your business," she flares, swinging her legs off the bed and standing in front of him, hands on her hips. Solo, who's been watching the exchange with an analyst's trained eye, notes with amusement the way that Illya's eyes trail over her body before he forces them back to her face.

"I know," he manages, although there's a definite thickening to his voice.

"And, not that it is any of your business, but we didn't do anything last night," she says icily, her voice biting into him. "Although, considering the fact that you and I have never _screwed each other_ either, I can't imagine why you'd care."

Illya actually pales, the colour washing from his face for a brief moment, eyes snapping shut as if he's been slapped. Even Gaby seems to realize she's gone too far, because she takes a step back until her legs hit the bedframe. Solo tenses, ready to pull her behind him if Illya loses control, but their partner merely takes a deep, ragged breath and opens his eyes. Napoleon's hand unconsciously curls in the blankets—he's never seen the man look this furious, this shocked.

"Illya—" he hears Gaby murmur, and she reaches out for him, trying to undo what's already been done. He stumbles backwards, away from her hand.

"I will go," he mutters, strangled and hoarse, and then he's opened the French doors and disappeared, leaving the scent of Russian leather and his bemused partners behind.

Gaby sits down on the bed, deflated, and Solo gives her a speaking glance.

"Really?" he says, mouth pursed a little in disapproval. "You know how he is about you. Why the hell would you set him off like that?"

She toys with the edge of the sheet, twisting it around her fingers and letting it go.

"He's too damn possessive," she grumbles defensively. " _Mein Gott_ , it was just a little cuddling. It wasn't like we were going at it like rabbits right in front of him."

Solo smirks at her. "Darling, if you're offering—"

She smacks him in the chest. "In your dreams," she scoffs. "I have enough trouble with the idiotic men I work with, I don't need any more."

"I don't know what I've done to deserve that," he teases her, and she gives him a begrudging smile.

"What are we going to do now?" she asks, and he can see the regret, lips pinched together, eyes guilty. He shrugs.

"Give him time," he advises philosophically. "He'll come around eventually. In the meantime, we should probably give Waverly advance notice of the repair bill."

"Mmm, the furniture," she agrees. "At least his room isn't one of the more expensive suites."

He nods and stands up, stretching slowly, trying to let the tension melt away. She still looks perturbed, so he walks around the bed to grab his shaving kit and gives her a lecherous eyebrow waggle.

"Come on, Teller, you've caused enough trouble for one morning. What do you say to a joint shower? Water conservation is very important, you know."

She kicks him in the shin, and he laughs.

They will find a way to make it right.

* * *

Even though he would cheerfully shred one of his Zegnas rather than pick up the phone, he calls Illya's room anyway. He and Gaby have both freshened up, gotten ready for the day; she's currently eating breakfast on the balcony, basking in the sunlight like a little tiger, oversized sunglasses planted firmly on her nose. He sighs a little as he waits on the operator to connect them. This whole thing is absurd, and it cannot compromise the mission. He'll have to find some way to smooth things over.

When Illya answers, he realizes it's not going be an easy task.

" _Da_?" he says, voice a dead monotone, and Solo hisses out a frustrated breath.

"We need to get down to the market," he says, all business. "We don't want to miss our friend if he shows up to shop today." He doesn't dare being too direct, not on an open hotel line.

"I will meet you at the brass vendor's stall, southwest corner," Illya says, without any inflection whatsoever. "Bring your camera."

It's code for _you're doing surveillance today_. Solo raises an eyebrow. So he's going to take the plunge and actually talk to Gaby about this morning instead of lurking around with a high-powered lens and a sullen expression. Bravo, Peril.

"See you in ten," he responds, and hangs up. Gaby has abandoned her croissant and is standing in the open doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame.

"So, which circle of hell do I get to enjoy this morning?" she asks, dripping vinegar. "The one where I get to go shopping with a jealous, monosyllabic Russian, or the one where I get to look at yet _another_ set of hand-woven rugs while the jealous, monosyllabic Russian watches from a distance?"

Solo grins at her. There are many, many reasons to love Gaby Teller, but her smart mouth is close to the top of the list.

"The first one," he says, and grins wider when she pulls her sunglasses down so he won't miss her eye roll.

"Oh, joy," she mutters, and goes to get her handbag. "This is going to be _delightful_."

* * *

They find Illya already waiting at the appointed location, pretending to examine the carvings on a tray and glowering into the middle distance. The shopkeeper is eyeing him warily from the other side of the booth, and seems to be too afraid to even ask him if he'd like any help. A wise choice, Solo thinks. Very wise.

He and Peril don't acknowledge each other publicly, just a flick of the eyes before Gaby strolls up to him, a patently false smile plastered on her face.

"My dear cousin!" she exclaims, and Solo chuckles inwardly at the acidity of her tone. She makes his cover sound like something unspeakably filthy. "Where have you been all morning? I've been waiting for you."

"I was detained," Illya mumbles. "Come, we should look on other side of the square."

He cups a hand under her elbow warily, as if worried that he'll get jabbed in the ribs, and leads her away. Solo heads for the coffee shop two doors down. (It's much easier running surveillance when one has a valid reason for staying in the same place for over fifteen minutes.)

They are both wearing wires, naturally, so he can hear the rest of the conversation with crystalline clarity.

"Well?" she asks him, after a tense moment. "How much of the furniture did you pulverize?"

There's a pause. "I don't know what you are talking about," he mutters, clearly embarrassed. She snorts inelegantly.

"Right." He can hear the music from the street performers on the other side of the square amplified through her microphone. "Because you weren't at all upset when you left our room this morning."

Even at this distance, he can see Illya's shoulders tense. She pushes on, ruthlessly.

"What's the problem?" she asks, and Solo's fingers tighten around the handle of his coffee cup. She's like a bulldog, their girl, always refusing to be the first to back down. "You really think I'm sleeping with him, or you just can't stand for him to have his hands on me?"

"Is none of my business what you do with him," Illya rumbles. "But I will not have him speak of you as a—in that—"

They've stopped, ostensibly to examine an array of brightly-coloured spices heaped in wooden bowls. She exclaims over the saffron for the benefit of the stall keeper, waiting until they've moved on to another stand to answer.

"Speak of me as a _what_?" she hisses. "What exactly did he _say_ to set you off like this?"

"Like a—like a whore!" There's a sudden sharp silence from both their feeds, and Solo can only imagine the look on her face, the sheer disbelief of it.

" _What?_ "

He hears Illya take a deep breath in through his nose. "I know it is different in America," he half-whispers, taking care to not be heard by the crowd surging around them. "But Gaby—'screwing each other'? Is the way a man speaks of a—a _shlyukha_ , a woman who shares his bed for money. It is not the way to speak of a…lover."

They've gone around a corner, so Solo can't see Gaby's reaction, but he can envision it. Ah, Peril, always so noble, so moral, so…Soviet. Of course he'd hear the casual phrase as an insult to her virtue. He runs his fingers along the rim of his cup and waits to hear what she'll do next.

There's a rustle of clothing, and then he hears Illya gasp in surprised pain.

"I…am…not…his…lover," crackles through the microphone, through clenched teeth, and he entertains himself by wondering where exactly she's grabbed hold of the Russian. "I told you that this morning. Just because I ended up snuggling with him for warmth does not mean that I'm fucking him three times a day and twice for breakfast."

He feels Illya's grunt of disapproval reverberate through the microphone.

"You should not—"

"Should not say such things? Should not use such language? _Scheiße_ , Illya, I grew up in a garage. What do you expect me to do, talk like a princess?"

Solo hears a thud, and his curiosity overcomes him. Leaving payment for the coffee on the table, he slips out of the little outdoor patio, moving towards the opposite end of the market. Even with the strong lens concealed in the fake camera, it takes him a moment to find them, hidden as they are in the shadow of a large booth selling scarves and embroidered hangings. Illya's fist is still resting on the wall he just punched, by the sound of it, his head leaning against the brick. Gaby stands beside him, every line of her body tight and defiant.

"No," Illya says on a long sigh, defeated. "No. I do not—you should not be anything but what you are." Through the lens, Napoleon sees her look away, and he can read the unwilling emotion ripple over her face. Score one for Peril.

She breathes out, slowly, and reaches a hand to Illya's shoulder. He shifts, and even though he's stooped against the wall, he still has to bend to look into her face.

"All right," she says, and it's a peace offering in all but name. "All right. Look, he didn't mean anything by it. He wouldn't say it like that if he meant it. It was just—just a phrase, one of his stupid Americanisms. You can't always assume the worst."

Illya straightens, and her hand falls from him. He looks at her, two long heartbeats of silence, and reaches out to cup her cheek. The gesture is so tender, so natural, that anyone would mistake _them_ for the newlyweds.

"Very well, chop-shop girl," he murmurs, and Napoleon grins as the deep flush blooms in Gaby's cheeks. "I will back off, _da_?"

She smiles at him and reaches for his free hand. Without warning, she pushes herself up on her toes and brushes a quick kiss across his jaw.

"I didn't say that," she whispers, and smirks when he swallows hard.

It's an adorable picture, but Solo can't stop to enjoy the view.

"I hate to break in on this charming _tête-a-tête_ ," he drawls, saccharine, and nearly snickers when they jump apart guiltily, "but I think I just spotted our mark headed towards the silversmiths' section. Peril, do you think you could manage to keep your hands off my clearly unfaithful wife long enough to find him, or should I give you a moment or two?"

Watching Illya try to glare without drawing attention to himself is just magnificent.

"Cowboy," he mutters in warning, and Solo _does_ chuckle this time. "Headed that way. Stop making smart remarks over wire, _da_?"

"Anything for you, _lyubov_."

* * *

It's not until they're back in the hotel that night, celebrating the first step towards victory with a little vodka that Gaby smuggled in inside her suitcase, that Solo goes to make peace. She's fiddling with the radio in the corner of their little living room, trying to find a station that plays something she likes, frowning when she keeps getting news bulletins in Arabic. Illya sits in a corner of the sofa (which is too small for him), one long arm stretched across the back, watching her with a quiet intensity. He has a glass in front of him that he hasn't touched, and he looks almost at peace, so much so that Napoleon hesitates to approach him.

He has to make the first move, though, and so he leaves the window, where he's been watching the street below through a crack in the louvers, and crosses the room. He drops into the armchair opposite Illya with an insouciant grace, swirling the vodka in his glass, and chances a glance at the other man.

"We did well today," he says, indifferently, an opening gambit. Illya hums in response, but doesn't look away from Gaby. Napoleon has the distinct sensation of being quietly and firmly ignored.

"You and Gaby played it nicely," he adds. "I doubt he suspected a thing."

Still nothing, not even a raised eyebrow or a twitch of those long fingers.

"However, your covers would probably work better if you seemed a bit less incestuous," he comments, and takes a sip of vodka. If idle pleasantries won't work, maybe it's time for something more inflammatory.

A bone-chilling blue stare pins him to his seat.

"Incestuous?" Illya's voice is flat and cool, but deliberately pitched low enough that Gaby won't notice that he's speaking. (Solo is fairly sure she's listening to them anyway, but if she wants to pretend otherwise, it's her business.)

"I don't know how it is in Russia," he says, innocently, "but in America, first cousins rarely have lovers' quarrels in the middle of a public square. We're terribly provincial that way."

Illya is looking at him as if he would like nothing more than to crack the bottle of vodka on the table over Solo's head and skewer him with the fragments, but he restrains himself admirably.

"In Russia," he answers, evenly, "we are not so…how do you say it? Dirty-minded, yes?"

Solo grins, his trademark charming smile that has coaxed many a reluctant mark into doing exactly what he wants.

"Yes—dirty-minded. Perhaps—" he pauses, chooses his timing carefully, "perhaps we could stand to learn a thing or two from you. Particularly when it comes to…word choice."

He waits a moment, wanting to make his meaning clear. It's an oblique apology—he can hardly see himself and Peril gushing about their feelings and hugging it out (although isn't that an interesting thought). But he can see, in the surprise in Illya's face and then the minute softening of his features, that he understands.

"Is a tricky thing, language," his partner says, accepting the olive branch. "Easy to misunderstand."

Solo tips his glass at him, a toast to things set right again, and considers for a moment. He glances over his shoulder at Gaby, who still appears to be utterly absorbed in the radio. (He is not fooled for a minute.)

"Peril, may I offer you some advice?" he asks, in a tone that is just shy of smarmy. Illya merely raises an eyebrow at him.

"First of all, drink your vodka, it's excellent. I don't know where she got it, but Gaby's got good sources."

He gets a long-suffering sigh in response. "Cowboy. Get to the point."

"Fine, fine. The point. You clearly have…an attachment to our little chop-shop girl. One that you have yet to act on, if all indications are to be believed."

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gaby's hands freeze on the dial. Excellent.

"This is none of your business, Cowboy."

He shrugs, the gesture of a man who is very used to poking around in things that are not his business.

"Maybe not, but this team is my business. Very much so. And for the sake of our joint effectiveness in the field, might I recommend that you actually do something about this little…attachment of yours?"

He looks at Illya, dead-on, and is not at all surprised to see a faint wash of red sweeping over the other man's neck and ears. Ah, the noble, virtuous, easily embarrassed Red Peril. How charming.

"I will deal with it when I see fit," Illya mutters, sounding as if his tie is suddenly too tight. Solo flicks a glance to his right and notes that Gaby has resumed playing with the radio dial, but every line in her body is straining to listen to the conversation. He can't help but smile, just the faintest crinkle of his eyes.

"I wouldn't procrastinate if I were you," he says, and holds up a hand to pacify the quick glance of outrage Illya gives him. "Not me. But we're not the only people in the world, and you know it."

It's the closest he's going to get to his true meaning, which is essentially that if Gaby gets tired of waiting around for Moscow to get with it and takes up with anyone else, there's going to be hell to pay. Illya frowns deeply into his glass, as if there are answers hidden somewhere in the clear liquid.

He's not going to look, because he knows she'll catch him, but he would bet every single Cardin in his wardrobe that Gaby is over there laughing to herself. He knows, of course, that she's not going to rest until she wears Illya down. But there's no harm in speeding up the process.

"Is not a good idea," Illya grumbles, having had a moment to ponder this idea, and this time he actually does take a drink. "Could compromise the integrity of this mission. Future missions."

"And today wasn't going to compromise the integrity of the mission?"

He lets the question hang in the air for a moment, and then gets up to refill his glass. Scotch this time, he thinks. Vodka is really Gaby's drink, and Peril's.

As he crosses to the small liquor cabinet, he looks down at Gaby and sees her lips quirk.

"You're welcome," he mouths silently, and pours himself three fingers of Scotch. Might as well settle in and enjoy the evening.

He hears Illya shifting behind him, and Gaby glances in his direction, eyes sharp and assessing. Then she tilts her head minutely in the direction of the balcony.

He turns just enough to see Illya standing, shuffling his feet a bit, looking distinctly ill at ease. So. Peril's going to make his move. He can't deny feeling a bit left out, but for the sake of the general peace, he's willing to make himself scarce.

"I think I'll take my Scotch with a view of the city," he announces unnecessarily as he puts the bottle back in its place. Gaby barely nods at him, and he pretends to drop his handkerchief as a pretext to lean down close to her ear.

"Next time I get to watch," he mutters out of the corner of his mouth, and then he's striding out onto the balcony, her surprised laughter ringing behind him.

"What did he say?" he hears Illya ask her, and he chuckles to himself. It'll be some time before he'll broach _that_ particular subject. One thing at a time, he tells himself.

The music swells behind him (Gaby is being considerate, he notes), and he settles into one of the ironwork chairs and props his feet up on the railing. It isn't the first time he's slept on a couch, and he very much doubts it'll be the last. But someday…someday he thinks there might be another option.

One thing at a time.

* * *

A/N: This is my very first attempt to write anything exclusively from Solo's POV, so I'm hoping the voice is in character. It is surprisingly hard to write inside his head-consider it a work in progress on my part.

Third-the catalyst for this whole altercation boils down to a phrase Napoleon uses that Illya strenuously objects to. I tend to read Illya's character as inherently traditional in a myriad of ways, even though he's a good Soviet. The respect he has for his mother, the way he treats Gaby, all point to someone who holds women in high regard, and so I imagined that he would be easily offended on Gaby's behalf if he felt that Solo were maligning her in any way (albeit unintentionally). Feel free to disagree with me if you like. ;)

Oh, and this is also the first time I've ever hinted at a possible OT3. I've been playing with it for a while because there is JUST SO MUCH good OT3 fic out there, but I'm a tad nervous about writing it because I've always done pairings in the past. So yay for me trying new things!

Finally, translations!

Pretty sure you could figure this out from context clues, but shlyukha means prostitute.

 _Scheiße_ \- shit

 _lyubov_ \- sweetheart or darling


	3. Like It Like This

She's having the time of her life.

* * *

They're in Chicago, enjoying a hard-earned two weeks' sabbatical after a particularly difficult mission in Ibiza that they brought off with even more than their usual aplomb. Waverly was impressed enough with their success to give in to her carefully calculated pout (and the exhaustion in Illya's eyes), and they owe their cozy little safehouse in Evanston to his generosity. He may be a pompous British ass, she thinks, but he takes good care of his team. His people. (They are _his_ people, already.)

For the first two days, they mostly slept, letting the blood-soaked dreams and the jet lag fade into oblivion, the comfort of dull suburbia soaking into their skin, an unlikely anodyne. Solo took the bedroom on the bottom floor, his only concession to the long gash across his thigh (courtesy of a moment of distraction and a Spanish knife). She and Illya took the second story, and from the moment she stepped into the little bedroom with its innocent white curtains and the wind sighing through the pines outside, something in her uncoiled, loosened. Let her breathe deep. They spent hours there, curled around each other, talking a little, mostly just breathing in the realization that they were _there_ , with each other, that they'd both survived against the terrible odds, that for two weeks they could have a little oasis all to themselves. She has traced the lines of his face, mapped the contours of his body with her fingers so many times over the last two days that she feels she could recognize him by touch alone. She thinks he has her memorized as well, and the realization fills her with a strange, half-tremulous elation. She is not used to being known so well.

Even so, she knows _herself_ well enough to realize that she's going to get restless right around day three, and sure enough, this afternoon was a drawn-out torture. She had proposed a shopping excursion, which was roundly vetoed by both her partners—Illya was absorbed in his eternal chess match against himself, Solo begged off with a halfhearted excuse about his leg, and she found herself pacing the living room rug, body humming with pent-up energy and no outlet in sight.

* * *

That was when she saw the advertisement in the newspaper for the nightclub.

They both argued against it at first. Illya had pinned her with that signature look, the one she calls the Russian do-not-mess-with-me stare, and simply said _nyet_ , _nikogda_.

She stares right back at him, one hand propped on her hip.

"No, never?" she parrots back. (She knows he has a weakness for sass.)

"We came here to rest, recuperate," he points out, eyes shifting back to his chessboard. "Not to go to loud American club."

She hisses out a breath of frustration between her teeth.

"I'm going stir-crazy cooped up in here, with you chained to your chessboard and Solo fussing about his leg! I did not come to America for two weeks to play nurse. Or maid."

The corner of his mouth twitches, and she suddenly wonders what exactly he would do if she were to show up in their room one night in a frilly apron and nothing else. He's never struck her as the role-playing type, but she definitely thinks he'd appreciate the view.

"Cowboy can't help his leg," he says, too calmly. He's making fun of her.

"Solo?" she calls sweetly, and the American strolls in from the kitchen, where he's no doubt been eavesdropping the entire time. "Solo, _Schätz_ , how's your injury?"

He grins. "Terrible," and he gives a theatrical mock groan.

"It is not," she retorts. "You're siding with _him_ , and I know it. You're doing that thing they say here in Chicago—the ganging up on me."

Solo chuckles. "You're picking up American slang like a pro," he observes with pride. "You'll be talking like one of us in no time."

Illya mutters something derogatory in Russian and hunches lower over his chessboard. She can see that this is rapidly going nowhere, and that is simply not acceptable. She is going out dancing tonight, no matter what it takes.

"Fine, then," she says, and deliberately flounces over to the staircase. "If you won't go with me, I'll go by myself. Who knows? Maybe I'll meet someone who's actually, you know…fun."

She sees Illya's fists clench on the table, the line of his spine tightening in anger. From the corner, Solo sighs, long and melodramatic.

"If you're going to fight dirty…" he begins, and she flashes them both a blazing smile.

"We're leaving at 6:00 PM," she informs them, and starts up the stairs. "Don't be late."

* * *

They find it quickly, tucked in a grimy corner of downtown Chicago, and from the second she hears the loud bass beat pulsing down the sidewalk, sees the half-lit sign, she knows this is going to be a good night. When they walk in the door, she grins, wide and delighted. This is her kind of club—not too flashy, nothing glamorous, but the music is good and the cover is low and the floor is packed with dancers. She doesn't recognize the group on the stage, but they've got one hell of a guitarist and their harmonies aren't bad. She laughs out loud and sheds her coat in one quick, fluid movement, hands it to Solo without looking. Behind her, she hears Illya suck in a sharp breath, and she turns.

"What—what is this?" he says, thickly, his eyes fixed on her with a mixture of arousal and horror.

She looks down at herself and smiles. She'd almost forgotten what she was wearing tonight, and that he hadn't seen it yet, hidden as it was by her coat. Her lips curl, cat-like and amused, and she turns on the spot so he can appreciate the view. It's a new dress—a different style than what she usually wears, the neckline low to show off her cleavage (she's wearing a bustier that does wonders for her), the waist nipped in, but what he's really staring at is the hemline. It's an A-line skirt, and it stretches a few inches down her thigh, and then just…stops.

Napoleon turns from flirting with the coat check girl and whistles, low and appreciative.

"Gabriella Teller," he drawls, "do my eyes deceive me, or are you wearing a miniskirt?"

She flushes a little, enjoying herself. Illya still hasn't managed to say another word, but his expression is speaking volumes. She cocks her hip, tilts her head to the side in a passable imitation of coquetry, and looks up at them through her lashes.

"Do you like it?" she asks, husky, and she sees Illya swallow. Hard.

"You look incredible," Solo tells her, and the tinge of lust in his voice has her glowing with pride. She knows it suits her, the severe black of the dress contrasting sharply with the boldness of the cut, highlighting her dark hair and olive skin. She can already see heads turning, feel the weight of men's eyes across the room. As much as the heady beat of the music, it makes her feel intoxicated, alight with energy. Alive.

"Good," she says, abruptly, and slides her arms through both of theirs. "Let's get a drink."

The bar's selection in no way lives up to Napoleon's high standards, but Gaby is happy enough with the martini they mix for her. She's here to dance, she thinks, not drink. She sips it slowly, watching the dance floor, the mix of bodies twisting and gyrating to the music. They have some new moves, ones she hasn't seen yet, and she wants to get the feel of the place before she goes out on the floor.

She hears someone clear his throat behind her, and turns. He's young and handsome, and he's got a sweet smile. He holds out his hand, palm up.

"I noticed you're not dancing," he says, half-yelling to be heard over the band. "You want a partner?"

Illya turns slowly on his barstool, one enormous hand wrapped around his glass of vodka.

"She has partner," he growls, venomously, and the boy steps back, alarm crossing his face.

"I—I'm sorry, I didn't know," he stammers, and flees into the crowd. Gaby raises an eyebrow.

"Was that really necessary?" she asks, mildly. Illya shrugs.

"I thought so."

She sets her glass down with an audible clink.

"So you plan on going out there with me?"

He gives her his other look, the you-must-be-crazy one. She rolls her eyes and stabs the olive in her glass with a toothpick.

"If you're not going to dance with me, then what exactly am I supposed to do?" she asks, as reasonably as she can. He shrugs again.

"Is not my problem. _I_ did not want to come here."

Her lips thin, and she can feel her eyes narrowing, the flash of her temper rising. Oh, he's going to regret that. She leans in, her tone venomous.

"It's about to be your problem."

He opens his mouth to protest, but it's too late. She's already slipped off her barstool and is making her way into the crowd, heading straight for the middle of the floor. Damn him and his Russian stubbornness, his apparent inability to adapt to anything he's not comfortable with. He wants a problem? She will give him one hell of a problem.

She snags herself a partner on the way, a tall boy, about college age, with dark eyes and a self-satisfied expression. All she has to do is sway over, flash him a smile, and hook her fingers around his tie, and he's coming with her, his arm around her waist. She turns to face him, pushes up on her toes to reach his ear.

"I'm new in town," she tells him, making sure to get close enough that he can feel the warmth of her cheek against his. "You think you can show me some of those Chicago moves, hmm?"

He pulls away and gives her a long look, head to toe, and she can tell he likes what he sees.

"Hell, yeah," he tells her, and his hands spread over her waist, overly possessive. "I'll show you anything you want, baby."

She bats her lashes and follows his lead, heading out to the floor. She twists and twirls easily to the music, letting their bodies brush together more than is strictly necessary. Halfway through the song, she looks over her shoulder and grins in triumph. Solo has wandered off; it takes her a minute to spot him. (By the looks of things, he's is trying to seduce one of the barmaids, and doing an excellent job.) But Illya—Illya is watching her with a positively murderous expression, his vodka forgotten behind him, hands clenching at his sides. She turns back to her dance partner and tilts her chin up, gives him her best come-hither stare, savouring the rage in those blue eyes across the room. This is _fun_.

By the time the song ends, the boy is staring at her with undisguised lust. He leans down, whispering in her ear that he wants her, that he can make her come in five minutes if she'll just slip outside in the alley with him, but she laughs and shakes her head. She can feel his disappointed stare on the back of her neck as she saunters back over to the bar.

Illya refuses to acknowledge that she's there.

"Well," she says, lifting a finger for another drink, "I think I've learned the new American dance moves pretty well, wouldn't you say?"

He remains hunched over his untouched glass, but she can see the way the muscle in his jaw jumps. It's perfect, and she runs her tongue over her teeth in anticipation.

"What did you think of my partner?" she asks, all innocence. Even over the music, she can hear the noise he makes in the back of his throat.

"You—" he spits, and then seems to run out of words. She leans her head back and laughs, the sound sharp and just a little malicious. Moving purposefully, she scoots close to him, so close that she knows he can feel the curve of breast and hip pressed against his side, and puts her lips against his ear.

"Learned your lesson yet?" she murmurs, and she feels the shudder run through him at the heat of her mouth on his sensitive skin. She decides to go for broke, and nips at the shell of his ear, right at the edge. He goes rigid, every muscle in that glorious body of his tensing, and she suppresses a wriggle of delight. Oh, how she loves doing this to him.

He's not going to cave, though. She actually _sees_ him do it, shove the lust and the jealousy down beneath the façade of professionalism and reserve that he's constructed so carefully for himself. Disappointed, she pulls away from him and purses her lips.

"All right," she says, and she hears the petty note in her own voice. "I'm going to dance. You want to sit and sulk, fine."

He pretends not to hear her, but she sees the twitch of his fingers. She blows her bangs out of her face, irritated, and is about to scope out another partner to torment him with when she hears the familiar jangle of piano keys and a deep voice, half-singing, half-speaking.

"No," she breathes, and spins to face the stage. She can't believe it.

It's _that_ song, the first one she bought for herself after she came over the Wall. She had paid for the record with Solo by her side, in a grubby little shop on the Left Bank, and she'd never felt more daring, more free, than when she laid the handful of francs on the counter and held her first legal American record in her hands. She remembers spinning down the street, pirouette after pirouette, finishing with her arms thrown around his neck, laughing so hard she couldn't stop. She remembers him hugging her back, a little bemused, kissing her cheek affectionately.

"That good, huh?" he had asked her, and she had taken a deep breath, filling her lungs with the rich freedom of Paris, letting it out shakily.

"You have no idea," she'd told him, and she'd meant it. She'd played that record over and over, so many times she'd worn down the needle on her little Philco and had to buy a new one. It's the sound of freedom for her, escape from the grey, sterile world of East Berlin into the brightness and colour of the West, and she will know every beat of it by heart until the day she dies.

And now they're here, in this dingy little nightclub, playing it live, and she can hardly breathe for the excitement. She forgets about Illya entirely, no room in her mind for anything but this moment, this song. Her legs are carrying out on the floor without her conscious volition, and then she's there, shaking, shimmying, moving to the music with the rest of the packed house, her eyes closed, head thrown back, smiling so widely it feels like her face might split in two.

She lifts her head after a minute or two, and she sees him looking straight at her, such tenderness in his gaze that it snatches her breath away. He gets it, she thinks—he knows exactly why she's moving with such joy, such abandon. He knows, better than anyone in her life, the sweetness of freedom when you've lived your whole life in a world of prison bars, and oh, but she's not angry with him anymore. How can she be, when she can see the love shining like gold in those jewelled eyes?

And so she lift her arms above her head, never breaking eye contact, and dances with everything she's got, hips twisting, shoulders shaking, grinding to the fast, dirty rhythm like there's no tomorrow. The singer's growl shakes the ground under her feet, and she can feel the crowd around her surge and sway. She lets herself get swept away by it, the sharp snap of the snare and the long yell leading into the chorus exploding like stars behind her eyes, and when the crowd screams its approval at the end of the set, she's screaming right along with them. She feels it rip out of her throat, primal and fierce, and pumps her fist in the air in wild victory. God, if this is not the best night of her life.

When it's over, she's sticky with sweat, her hair is falling out of its elegant upsweep, and her legs feel like rubber, but she doesn't care. She stumbles off the dance floor, worn out, and looks around for Illya. His stool is empty. She leans against the bar, breathes for a minute, and thinks of finding the ladies' room. She could use a little freshening up, she thinks.

Halfway down the dark hallway, she senses movement behind her, and without a second thought she's pulled the switchblade out of her garter and is pressing the tiny button on the side. The _snick_ of the razor-sharp blade echoes off the cinderblock seconds before she presses it against a very familiar neck.

"Going to slit my throat, chop-shop girl?" he asks laconically, but he holds still while she gives him a suspicious look and flicks the knife shut.

"Are you following me?" she retorts. She may have melted for him out there on the dance floor, but he doesn't need to be reminded of it just now.

He smiles at her, that rare, quiet smile he gives her when he's feeling particularly sweet.

"Thought you might be going this way," he says, and lifts those thick golden lashes to look at her like he'd follow her to the ends of the earth and back. (It's not fair, she thinks. He knows what that does to her.)

"Hmm," she says, and reaches down to tuck the knife back in her garter. She stops when she feels his long fingers wrap around her wrist.

"You wore this on purpose," he mutters, gesturing at her ridiculously short dress, and the rasp in his voice has her belly quivering. She nods, smugly.

"You danced like that on purpose," he continues, his voice lowering. She nods again.

"Thought you'd like it," she says, and she pulls at his grip until their joined hands are resting on the thin band of silk around her thigh. He shifts against the wall, and she can see the colour starting to rise, high on his cheekbones.

"What are you doing?" he whispers, his accent heavy, more guttural. She shivers and presses his hand to the garter, his fingers brushing the edge of her underwear. He breathes in sharply, and even in the dim light, she can see his pupils widen.

"Gaby," he grits between his teeth. She can feel his fingers twitch, curving over her skin, and she leans against him, lets him feel every inch of her. He groans, his head falling back against the wall.

"You will kill me," he mutters, and she laughs, soft and exultant.

"There are worse ways to go," she mumbles against his neck, and then she pulls his head down to hers and kisses him, open-mouthed and messy, tongues tangled and teeth clashing. When she finally breaks away, they're both breathing hard, and he looks at her with such desperation she has to glance away from him before she fucks him right here against the wall.

"There's a coat closet…two doors down," she manages, struggling for breath, and yanks on his arm when he heads the wrong way. "To the right, _miliy moy_."

She sees his teeth flash when he hears the Russian on her tongue, and then they're tumbling into the little closet, tripping over a bucket and what feels like a broom, hands everywhere, his mouth on the delicate line between her neck and shoulder, her fingers fumbling for his belt buckle. He grunts with displeasure after a moment; he can't move as he wants to, and he resolves the height difference by lifting her like a doll, his hands firm on her thighs, sliding towards her ass. She whimpers and wriggles closer to him, forcing him to hold her tighter, and the sound he makes is barely human.

" _Gott_ , yes, just like that," she whispers. " _Heilige Scheiße_ , Illya, _yes_."

Her skirt is rucked up around her waist, her legs wrapped around him, and she can feel the heat of his skin through the delicate material of her underwear and the fabric of his shirt—can feel how wet she already is. If his harsh breathing is any indication, he can feel it too. It's dark in the little closet, but there's enough light seeping in under the door that she can see the tendons in his neck standing out, can feel the iron control he's exerting. It makes her shudder to think what might happen if he lets it loose.

She pushes at his shoulder until he eases his grip and lets her down. He stares down at her, confused and wary, until she turns around and motions to the zipper running down the back of her dress.

"Take it off," she commands, and she can feel his fingers tremble against her spine as he obeys. She shucks it off onto the floor and steps over it, towards the shadowy outline of a low table in the corner. There's not much room to maneuver, but she's going to make it work.

"Come here," she whispers, and hops up on it in nothing but lace bra and panties. She can feel the grit of dust under her ass, and rolls her eyes. Of all the places for them to fuck each other's brains out, it would have to be a filthy broom closet. Naturally.

He moves toward her slowly, as if the air around him has suddenly become heavy, and stands in front of her, silent. Her eyes have adjusted to the dimness, and she can see the coiled power in his broad shoulders, the way he holds himself in check. She's going to fix that.

"Take off your shirt," she whispers, and he does it without speaking, fingers fumbling at the buttons. It goes sailing in the same direction as her dress, and she smiles fiercely.

"These will be harder," she predicts as she hooks a finger in the waistband of his trousers. She can feel a tremor run through his muscles of his stomach, and she deliberately flattens her palm against him, waits for the long, shuddering breath above her head.

" _Pozhaluysta_ ….Gaby, _please_ ," he chokes out, and she takes pity on him, slips the button from its tab and draws down his zipper. She shoves his trousers down, roughly, and mimics her motion from before, palming him through his briefs. He jerks, violently, and she runs her fingers over the tip of his cock, registering the length of him, curling her fingers around him with more than her usual satisfaction.

That's what breaks him. For the first time that night, she can't get him to _stop_ talking…curses, endearments, words she's never heard before, a stream of desperate, strangled Russian filling the little closet. He yanks her up against him, his fingers tearing at the clasp of her brassiere, and she hears fabric rip. It was La Perla, hideously expensive, but she's the one who tosses it away and presses his eager mouth to her breasts, arching into him when he scrapes his teeth over her nipple.

She honestly doesn't know what happens to her underwear. (She finds it later, balled up behind a box of shot glasses.) All she knows is that when he rolls her nipple against his tongue, when he slides those long, clever fingers against her folds and crooks them inside her, she sees stars burst behind her eyelids.

" _Der Fick_ ," she hisses, twisting against him, wanting his thumb right _there_ , at her most sensitive point, making her body hum like a guitar string under his ready hands. "Illya," she pants, barely managing to form coherent words at this point. "Illya, _now_."

He knows what she wants, and she watches him hesitate for a moment…consider torturing her as payback for what she's been doing to him all night. She thinks she might scream with the anticipation when he finally relents, picks her up from the table and braces her against him.

"Ready, little one?" he murmurs, lips gentle against her flushed cheek, and she nods, gulping.

"Don't make me beg," she warns him, and she can feel the laughter shake his chest. Then he's lowering her onto him, sliding inside her, slow and steady, and she can feel her muscles stretch to take him in. The muscle in his jaw ticks as he waits for her to move, holding himself perfectly still until she's ready. When she lifts her face to his and starts to move her hips, writhing against him, he growls, deep and harsh. Keeping her in place with one hand, he pivots, bracing one arm against the shelf behind her to protect her back from the coarse wood, and then he gives her exactly what she wants.

It's fast and rough and everything she's been craving all night, every thrust sending her into a haze of pleasure so intense she thinks she might collapse from the weight of it. His gasps are hoarse and frenzied in her ear, and when she locks her ankles at the small of his back and grinds against him with all she has, he shouts something in garbled Russian that she doesn't understand. She claps her hand over his mouth, trying not to smile.

"Illya! _Halte die Klappe_ ," she orders, but she runs her tongue over his collarbone to soften the words, tasting salt and musk. He buries his lips in her hair and groans.

" _Moya lyubov_ ," he whispers, and she holds him close, her fingers smoothing over the flexing muscles of his back. For some reason, that's what sends her over the edge.

"I'm close, Illya, God, so close," she manages, and then she doesn't have to tell him, because she's falling apart around him, gasping curses in German and English and maybe something in French, she doesn't know because every fibre of her body is exploding and it feels so good that she thinks she really might have died.

He's right behind her, teeth clenched to keep from crying out again, and then it's over and there they are, wrapped around each other, exhausted and replete.

" _Gott_ , Illya," she mumbles, and she can feel his lips curve against his shoulder.

"Mm-hmm," he rumbles. It seems to be as vocal as he can get at the moment, and she's impressed by the fact that he's still holding her up, his body curved over her, head resting against the wooden shelf.

"Come on, _Liebling_ , we've got to get home," she whispers, but she presses a quick kiss at his jawline as she says it. She's worn out, the whole of the evening hitting her at once, and right now she wants nothing more than a long shower and the comfort of their bed. He lets her slide down, but he doesn't move. She runs a gentle hand along his spine, reaches for her ruined lingerie.

"I'll let you drive," she says, which is guaranteed to get him going. He straightens slowly and turns just enough to give her an appraising look.

"You mean it?" he asks, and she grins at him as she bends down and tosses him his shirt.

"Would I lie to you?" she asks, and his eyes crinkle at the corners. He's still smiling as he buttons his trousers, helps her pull up the zipper of her now-dusty dress. As she tries and fails to brush herself off, he glances at her sideways, uncharacteristically shy.

"I like this—" he waves a hand at the dress "—on you."

She's pulling on her heels, and she stops for a minute, looks over her shoulder at him with laughter dancing in her eyes.

"I knew you would," she says, smugly, and looks both ways before she opens the closet door and slips out.

"Let's go home," she says, and takes him by the hand.

* * *

The drive home is perfect, windows down to catch the summer breeze, her hair blowing against her cheeks and Illya's hand over hers on the gearshift. Solo lounges in the back seat, for once not commenting on their obvious dishevelment (although she's sure he'll have plenty to say in the morning). She can't imagine a better end to the night.

She leans her head back against the seat, watching the stars wheel above them, listens to the slow rhythm of jazz playing softly on the car radio…thinks of East Berlin and the cold grey monotony of fear. Her eyes drift shut, and she lets herself remember the feel of the music moving through her body, shaking her bones, filling her with primordial joy. She feels the soreness of her muscles, the grit on her skin, remembers _my love_ whispered into her scalp—lets her throat ache with the tenderness of it. She is here now, in the world of the living, no longer buried alive. She is saturated in it, its light and colour and sound, and she will never go back.

Her hand tightens over his, and Illya glances over at her, blue eyes calm and untroubled. In the rearview mirror, she can see Solo's handsome profile, the impeccable figure he cuts, and she lets the corners of her mouth tilt up, just a little. They are the ones who anchor her here, as ironic as it is. Her people. (Already, they are _her_ people.)

She breathes that in, holds the truth of it in her lungs for a minute. There will be other difficult missions, other near-death misses, other times when blood soaks into the crevices of her fingers. She cannot avoid it. But they will be there, to catch her, to hold her, to make her forget. To drag her back to life. To let her feel the beat run through her bones, to bring her body to coiled completion, to hold her coat and shield her from bullets. And she will do the same for them.

She looks out the window again and begins to count the stars.

* * *

A/N: Y'all, I'm pretty sure this is the smuttiest fic I've written to date. I'm really quite pleased with myself (and a tad nervous, because honest-to-God smut and OT3 relationships are the two things I've never really done much before).

If you're wondering, the song Gaby dances to and bought in Paris is the Contours' "Do You Love Me," which is one of my personal favourites. (I have been known to turn it up to ridiculous volumes and jam to it in the car.) The band playing when the three of them enter the nightclub is R.E.O. Speedwagon. I did some research and discovered that Speedwagon got its start in nightclubs and bars in the Chicago area in the '60s, and couldn't resist using it. Having the Contours playing a small, dingy club is really a bit farfetched, since they were already pretty big by 1965, which is roughly when this fic takes place. However, just for the fun of it, I'm pretending that they came over from Detroit to hit up their old stomping grounds and play a set or two. We're going to roll with it. ;)

Translations (quite a few this time):

 _Schätz_ \- dear, darling

 _miliy moy_ \- baby, darling, sweetheart

 _Heilige Scheiße_ \- holy shit

 _Pozhaluysta_ \- please

 _Der Fick_ \- fuck

 _Halte die Klappe_ \- shut up

 _Moya lyubov_ \- my love

 _Liebling_ \- darling


End file.
